Overwhelmed
by ChronicallyinFlaming
Summary: Krillin takes the role of showing Eighteen what it's like to take it slow and really connect emotionally while having sex. And of course Eighteen is a little overwhelmed by it all.


**The Prompt: Not really a kink I guess, but I'd like to read something with Krillin and Eighteen's first time like actually making love. They've already had sex before, but Krillin takes the role of showing Eighteen what it's like to take it slow and really connect emotionally while having sex. And of course Eighteen is a little overwhelmed by it all.**

* * *

Blow out all the candles, blow out all the candles

"You're too old to be so shy," he says to me so I stay the night

Just a young heart confusing my mind, but we're both in silence

Wide-eyed, both in silence

Wide-eyed

Well I'll never be a lover

I only bring the heat

Company under cover

Filling space in your sheets, in your sheets

-Candles, Daughter

Krillin laid out flower petals and chocolate lightly onto the bed, sprinkled on the comforter by the fluffed pillows. Message oil waited on the bedside table. The stem of the rose tasted like dirt when he held it in his teeth, no matter how many times he had washed it off. Already, he could hear the jokes if someone saw this scene.

But they didn't know! Because they wouldn't have believed the truth.

For the fifth time, he consciously avoided staring at the window or any time piece.

When she came in (and he presumed that she would tonight) he could only hope it wasn't with a set schedule. Looking at the clock she didn't need, 'you have five minutes of foreplay.'

'That's not fair.'

'Two minutes.'

There might not even be kissing, and this was the worst part. He would lean forward, mouth pursed, or wait for those outside defenses to retreat, and she would firm push him aside or turn away. A kiss, a mark of affection and adoration—and instead got mauled. But the possibility of a gentle, reassuring affection…she dangled that out there like a confusing carrot as he tugged at the cart strapped to him, ignoring the alarm beeping and his roommates getting pissed that he'd set it wrong. By then, she would be searching for her pants.

She just wanted it fast. No conception of waiting or delayed gratification and Krillin could only hold himself apart for so long. She might not even come inside, occasionally. Like ruining the flower beds he'd carefully just watered that morning. Seedy bathrooms in semi-public places, twice, with both vowing _never again_. Bad wine that gave him heartburn and her arguing about 'domestic brands' while they undressed in the back of a van. Once they'd even found themselves on the roof, three-quarters dressed and trying not to break the gutters. Or she would just show up and push him downwards.

Eighteen treated him like a sex ATM.

Sometimes she even literally gave him money, slipping it into his underwear with such ease he immediately began to squirm. 'You were acceptable.'

He'd stood there, a half-naked goober holding money he hadn't known she even had. 'What?'

'Go on; by yourself something pretty for me.'

But Eighteen hadn't really cared much about his silk boxers the next time she showed up.

Well, Krillin wouldn't have it anymore!

There were candles and a red shirt to be thrown over the light and then removed after he found the corner smoking. Romantic music would be played, low and grating as it looped. Master Roshi and Oolong were long gone, physically thrown out and mystified as to why. He had even taken notes the last time he'd gone to Capsule Corp on wooing the unaffectionate. Eighteen wouldn't be moved if he started crying into a carton ice cream (not that he would…), but maybe if he pouted and rejected her advances, she would realize her mistake.

Then leave. And never come back.

Lines could form of people that would do exactly as she ordered. People glad to be her sex ATM. What had he been thinking, pushing his luck? Remember his last date? Remember the years before and after that date? Remember all the long nights alone, all but crying into a pillow and wishing for someone, anyone, to comfort him? Any woman, any single one, to even notice him and act like he was a man. Remember eating ice cream and watching romantic movies (and crying) and then later doing that while trying desperately not to think about Eighteen?

That was all he wanted, he would whimper as he added more sprinkles, just to stand in the rain and confess his love to her and have her run downstairs to embrace him.

She was every actress, especially the blonde ones. Every blue-eyed gaze. Every woman and girl that had ignored him, and every slight figure in jeans. Every desperate loveless person was himself, lost and miserable.

But then—she was _Eighteen_. Dangerous, a machine, a young, flirting, sarcastic, arrogant being, as strong as any Super Saiyan, the woman who laughed too loudly when finding a picture of him at thirteen wearing a low-cut negligee, the most beautiful woman in the galaxy, and the person he was in love with past the point of all reasoning.

So what if she was a little cold, often late, and a little brusque? That was only a shell, and she might let him in one day to see her tender side. Relationships were all about compromise. That's what the movies had promised anyway. Deep down, surely Eighteen cared, and what was self-respect worth really, and had he ever had any of that anyway?

He wanted rules and titles and boundaries established; he did remember Maron. Then he would relent, because he did remember Maron.

Remember _Maron_? How could he not. If only he couldn't. Remember Mint? Hell, remember Lunch, so frightening and then so sweet, and that one party you almost approached her at? Oh, oh, this is fun, remember _Bulma_? She never knew, thankfully. Remember her receptionist, and how she never looked at you. The girl at the supermarket. All the pretty girls that looked right through him, and if noticing him at all, would just laugh? And there was that alien woman with that flood of orange hair…remember Eighteen and that first little mocking kiss. Her mouth, her laughter, those smug blue eyes and that endearing habit of pushing that perfect sunlit hair out of her face. Everything to him in that moment, then and forever.

Krillin languished and waited.

The atmosphere was too romantic now. Desperate, and that came hand in hand with something else that came in hand. He rolled over and found the box under his bed.

Now the fighter was just tempting the worst fate, (if she saw this, she would rip them to shred and then make him eat them) but couldn't seem to stop from digging through magazines he'd hidden and not read for so long now; prehistory artifacts. They looked so flat and boring now. Fake bodies with staples separating them. How could they compare to his goddess showing up in flannel and boots and Chapstick? Now, that got him through the next five minutes, and she really deserved this revenge/insidious masturbation. Just enough to take the edge off. It would trap her here for a little while longer, while she waited for him to get ready again.

Strangely thrilling this time, as it hadn't been since Krillin was a teenager. His right hand had more relevance and skill. Imagination honed, but now it was looser, sweeter. He was a reborn into someone better, someone with a partner, a person no longer expected death the following week, and he was no longer even bald. A new man. Now he masturbated and waited for a woman that would probably, maybe, show up and even have sex with him.

It was the perverted version of waking up the next morning after he'd been literally revived. Sunlight even new beauty, dawn lovelier than ever after a sunset that was awe inducing. There same warm peace he'd felt that first time Eighteen had stopped by to all but assault him on the beach. Sand all over and embarrassing him later while he dusted it off in the living room and then went upstairs to pass out.

Krillin still had not told a soul what they did.

He was certain that it was the same for her. Maybe she whispered it to herself or wrote it down in a journal or called anonymous numbers to reveal her feelings to strangers but he wasn't certain. Her brother couldn't know because he hadn't tracked Krillin down and beaten him to death with his own genitals.

Despite that thought, however, Krillin could continue. This was no long self-abuse, but preparation and a ritual of love and adoration. Since Eighteen wasn't here, this was how he would have to pledge his adulation. She would have been more amused than disgusted to see him like this.

Honey, you had me at your first laugh at my expense.

But she was more than that, wasn't she.

More than a hand on him, too. The bite of her mouth. The annoyance that drove her eyebrows together, and her perfectly clear eyes, pale blue that shaded darker around the black pupil, with those spatial white feathers, their tilt to them. The dip to her chin and lines of her mouth and line of her cheeks. She had an elegant neck, and more than once he'd lost himself in her hair, silk, too pale to be just simply classified as 'blonde.' Her eyelashes were black. The denseness of her bones, and Krillin remembered the fights, the lovemaking. She did not hesitate. I would never have a chance against her. Eighteen was never not eager. No one he'd ever met had that confidence and grace. The monks had been right, when they said how dangerous women were. She had never needed him. She had kissed him, _her_.

They understood each other, perfectly, in certain blissful moments. Combined, just one person. So much more than he'd thought and dreamed about. He'd been caught so short. Even his wish, even the flushed heat in his ears as he tried to reassure her that everything was okay, even making that wish and admitting how he felt about her to others could not prepare him.

Even this was different, since Krillin could so easily imagine, no, _remember_ what it had been like with her.

Like nothing else. Even this.

Self-pity was always followed after lust. That still hadn't changed. Fall asleep with his hands down his shorts, pouting and depressed. But this time it would be surrounded by chocolate and candles and on a bed of roses. Like he'd really been treating himself right, and then wrong. Maybe the others would come back early and find him like this. Take pictures like that time he'd gotten drunk during a party and awoken on a front lawn of one of Bulma's neighbors. 'Please leave or I'll call the cops.' Krillin had been too hungover and shirtless to explain.

He turned off the music, and went to bed.

Dawn stabbed him in the eye much like that one long evening he'd nearly fallen asleep remembering. But it was even worse this time. Eighteen hadn't even broken in to write rude notes to stick on him with glue. She had lovely handwriting, even as it was used to threaten to punch him in the throat if he fell asleep on top of her again. Her version of love letters, and he kept every one, even the ones that were morbidly violent.

Downstairs, his roommates were chomping at cereal, and he could never explain why he looked so depressed. "Why is there chocolate on your back?"

"I really don't know anymore." Krillin sighed into the milk.

Maybe she'll never come back. Maybe I am wasting my time. Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I should try the personals. Maybe I should meet a 'normal' woman.

Imagine trying to 'break' up with her…

"Krillin? Buddy? What's wrong?"

"Son, are you alright?"

Someone took him by the shoulders. "Did you have a stroke?"

Slowly, his ears stopped ringing with the memory of Vegeta's screams. No, it wouldn't be that bad, should that unimaginable tragedy ever occur. But it would be awful in its own way. If only should some new alien/cyborg/monster showed up and they all had to join the same side to defeat it and save the world, and it got really awkward between them. And of course no one would believe they had some fling that _he_ had ended.

But how could he ever reject Eighteen? For not living up to…what, his expectations? Since when did he have those?

But didn't _she_ have those? Shouldn't she be seeing some tall, blonde gentleman with long hair and gym muscles and a shiny sports car? A chiseled dimpled chin and green eyes. He would own his own business and would never make any demands of his gorgeous girlfriend (unless that's what she wanted) and would know three languages and have an easy laugh. He would go hunting with Seventeen, and no one would be left lost, stung with buckshot, and left scratching at his bug bites while stepping into a bear trap. Who was Krillin to possibly stand in the way of her and that mystery man? One look at that smile aimed for Eighteen, and Krillin would have to shave his head and move back to Orin Temple. It was just be a matter of time before she found that guy, and realized all she was missing.

A tasteful house set far back on a long sloping lawn. Or a condo. No pets. No _children_. Shopping trips. Kissing in public and he'd look so cool in that black leather jacket she'd bought him. Would she ever remember her ex-, the guy who had used a wish from a magic dragon to try and help her, or would Eighteen be able to move on quickly with maybe a shudder as she recalled her past. Stubble and an aquiline nose. Krillin already hated him.

Is this what she wanted? Was this anything to her? She was young, beautiful, moody, acerbic and pointedly disdainful. How could he _know_? Eighteen was a complicated women, and he never understood women in the first place at all. In front of regular, normal girls, he stumbled and made an idiot of himself, and even as a boy, he'd never been good around the ladies. He stuttered and went tongue-tied and didn't know what to do with his gaze and his hands, and those girls were just annoyed by him and couldn't smash his head if they ever kissed.

On the other hand—Eighteen did kiss him. Long, searching, soul-sucking kisses. And she had started all this, after all. Maybe she just had peculiar taste. That would explain the stripes…

He had to go back, to the beginning, inspect the start, go to the _abovo_.

You wanted nothing more than to destroy, to make a joke of the world that hurt you, to be as flippant as the universe. Everything was a fight for control, and even that kiss was a way of putting me down. You fully planned to murder my best friend. Maybe you would have too, if given the chance. A laugh and a flip of your hair, your hand, and you could have destroyed the world.

I was charmed.

When they had met, the smoke had literally cleared, and he had been dazzled and confused by her before he even fell in love. Just standing there, Eighteen had been dazzling, a creature apart from the world. She drove him into the sand, the dirt, the water, their first sparring match, but hadn't that been part of his delight, to know she could break him into pieces but chose not to?

Krillin had never thought she would ever return to him. Let alone pinned him against a wall, and destroy every long-held fantasy that fell so completely short. A hungry pink mouth and creamy thighs, the weight of her head against his stomach, the spill of bright hair and those languid pale eyes. When she mouthed _oh please, please, Krillin._ Plus, well, the fact stated so completely and utterly that still failed to capture the full extent and massive span that threatened to crush Krillin so many times: he loved her. 

He could forgive. Krillin was good at that. At dealing with what was left. Rounding up.

Still, the fighter ( _retired_ ) could hear her voice. Telling him to get off before she kicked him away. Her sneers. When she poked him. Her shoving him away when he rested his cheek against her knee and nearly breaking his neck. The jokes about his height, and the general insults. Demanding that he grow his hair out, how could he have been _shaving it_ , what was _wrong_ with him?

Like she had a leg to stand on.

That's right. Eighteen was _weird._ She was the one to take a perverse pleasure in hearing about his exploits. His failures, in combat and otherwise. Eighteen loves to stir up the bad memories, then slowly cheer him up in her own special way. All part of her personality, or simply an act or something…

But she really did appreciate the slow soft growth of his hair, so startlingly, unsurprisingly black. His friends didn't know about that yet either. They would have believed him if he told them he'd seen Eighteen again, but not if Krillin had told them what they'd done. Some of them were still angry at the androids, and the rest were simply wary. Maybe they could all be friends one day, Yamcha had allowed, but that probably won't happen.

Maybe it was better that no one knew. They wouldn't get it. It took _him_ a long time to get it.

Eighteen wanted bad poetry and words of devotion to scorn. She wanted a pedestal to kick over and someone she could maul and expect to always take it. Why else choose someone that she knew would do those things? She had the videos, after all. You knew exactly what you were getting into with me, Eighteen. No, his favorite mystery wrapped in enigmas and blessed with perfect eyebrows liked options, if only to proclaim how horrible they were.

He could deal with that. He could deal with her sporadic visits. With her strange aversions and demands. They were just still getting used to each other. This must be harder for her. She had been 'programmed' to kill him. Eighteen had only been closed to Seventeen and Sixteen, and the large, not ungainly androids had died by the hands of a monster that had hurt her and her twin. Just getting up must be hard. Her whole life taken from her; both lives, really. Remember the bomb inside her?

His Master passed a box of cereal to Oolong. "Maybe that's why he grew out his hair?"

"Maybe that's how he got the stroke?"

" _Maybe_ we should call Bulma?"

"…let's wait and see if he feels better later."

* * *

Eighteen had a six pack and cigarettes. Well, that meant she planned to stay for awhile.

She also looked adorable, her hair just a little ruffled from the wind. She could hardly deign to slip through the window, although she refused to use the door like a normal person. A haughty look on her lovely face. It was unfair how she looked in jeans.

But no, he wouldn't be distracted. He would not!

Krillin liked (loved) that she looked around his room as any conqueror would. Surveying all her new property. His, and now hers. Eighteen, in his room, and cracking a beer like this were some normal event, and it _was_ , and yet still it was miraculous. Three years spent preparing for her (no, so many more than that) and still he was not ready for Eighteen at all.

She fussed with loose strands of hair. "Why does your room smell like a funeral?"

"You don't deserve me!"

Finally she focused on him. "What?"

What? Oh, oh no.

No, go with it. Speak your mind. All relationships needed was honesty and love. She told him freely about how he irritated her, and he, well, he loved her. They would make this work. Or she would put those disgusting cigarettes that even he could tell stunk up his room out in his face.

"You don't! You just come in whenever to sleep with me, and then you're gone. Do you know what I had planned last night? Dinner and candles. I tried to pick out what I thought you'd like. The hours I slaved over it."

Eighteen made a face, like she was hearing of a particularly gruesome sort of torture.

"I _missed_ you. Don't you get that?"

Did you miss me?

Krillin pulled back, and tried to blink away the tears. "Now, are you going to stay the night? All the night?"

"What? Why would I want to do that?"

Thirty-one years. I have waited for her for thirty-one years and I'm ruining it.

He looked at his feet, and hoped he seemed less pathetic than he looked. "Because I want you to."

Don't you understand that?

That nearly stopped that rising sneer. "What, you think I want to meet your friends? That I'd be willing to deal with your 'roommates'?" she taunted.

Oh, but she would. In a violent way. That was the problem.

Still, Krillin lapsed into a fantasy of her in pajamas, flannel, grey and red, hair all mussed as she stomped downstairs to fill a bowl of cereal. The others would stare, as they had their heart attacks, but eventually this would become normal. They would have assigned places at the table. This is what he fantasied about now. Coffee and news and the chance to be seen with her around others to confirm that yes, this was actually her, and she was real, and he hadn't lost his mind (entirely).

"Not like you let me take you out to someplace nicer."

"Oh, shut up." She scoffed, gaze leaving his and looking around. Seeing the pictures of her enemies and posters of the inconsequential.

'Not like we're dating. Not like I really care what you want.' She had said that to him once, lips to his ear, nails scratching his neck while he shivered. His shirt pulled up, her own on and tight and black. Krillin could remember every single time. Lidded eyes as she rested her head on his lap and he stroked the lioness and she purred. Scuffs on her sneakers and his fluttery slack face and rivets in her jeans. Sheets curled around them both. A bed, the floor, her on her stomach with her forehead pressed to his forearm, bony ankles and elbows. Her in sunlight.

He leaned forward, voice trying for husky, something other than nasally, whining. "Will you stay?"

The night. Stay forever.

So now she sighed. The put-upon spouse appeasing her vindictive partner. If only. "Oh, fine."

There it was: guilt. She did care. He secretly celebrated by looking his most annoyed. It was a good trick, and one he'd learned not from Bulma and Vegeta, but from Chi-Chi and Goku.

"Here." Eighteen stood next to him, offering up alcohol as a peace offering. She could do that now. He could probably do that now. But the first time the short man had tried to give her anything, she had declined vehemently. She had wanted something, even as she couldn't express it, even as she kissed him. Maybe the sex was just a way of getting to that point? Oh, he didn't know.

Except. He did know what he wanted. It was standing right next to him, and trying to hide her impatience behind that mask of indifference.

The cold bottle pressed to his ear to tease him. Here.

Krillin sipped at the imported microbrew (she could be such a snob) he didn't want, and kept silent while he plotted.

Soon, oh yes, soon she would either be bringing home flowers by the armful and dragging in dead dinosaurs by the tails. Or thrown out to survive on the land after being tossed out by his familiar and then friends. If only they lived together.

"You really have to make a show of things." She sighed, and patted his shoulder. You could envy a bottle by the way she held it. "Did you really make dinner?"

Those fingers. The knuckles and easy grace. "Yes."

Technically. There had been food in the fridge. It didn't hurt to overstate things. He just wished he could sniff.

Krillin would have made her dinner, if he thought she would actually stick around to eat it. And it was the thought that counted.

"Poor Krillin. Were you waiting up all night for me?" Her grin was wicked, the one she had given when beating his friends half-to-death. She knew exactly what he'd been doing. It was dumb to blush with her, after what they had done together. Still, it was there, and only deepened when Eighteen reached out to feel the heat on his cheeks.

She looked insidious, beautiful, in the moonlight. Their mouths would taste of that sour ale.

"Eighteen. Will you do something for me?" That smile promised that Krillin would get sent to Hell when he died, because no one could see that glee and not be tainted.

"Not that. Not that, exactly."

She tugged at his earlobe, light, playful. "What are you talking about?"

"I want to go slower this time. Appreciate each other." Make eye contact. Not use a timer. Take all of their clothes off.

He could feel the night air against his arms. It was a nice evening. One for fireworks and camping and cuddling under a blanket. Cuddling that involved him with another person rather lying alone in a tent, scratching your bug bites, forced to hear others giggling and talking and being generally happy and in love.

Eighteen thought that one over. Her fingertips, cold and damp, pressed into his neck.

"Is this punishment?"

He peeked at her through his eyelashes. "I dunno. Is it?"

There.

Let's go in this direction right there. Well, he'd already started this. He might as well continue it. "Eighteen, do you _like_ me?"

She snorted. "I haven't murdered you yes, have I? Oh, enough with the self-pity. What's wrong with you?"

Maybe Eighteen should be the one to answer that.

He thought she might still be disgusted by him.

The reluctance towards intimacy. How she shied away from unexpected, untimed kisses. The revulsion, so stark, when waking up next to him that one time. She replied to every nickname, every whisper of devotion, every proclamation of affection with an insult.

It was too dark to see the veins at the temple, the fine hair, delicate capillaries in the eyelids. Eighteen was usually only here at night. Her hand was still on his neck, gentle and seeking his pulse.

There was a part of her still cut off from him. Not the machinery built inside, he thought, but the human part that couldn't be read. Her expression so blank. Some people, like Piccolo and Baba, could read minds, but Krillin had no idea what Eighteen might want, what she expected, from him. He could look into her eyes all he wanted, but that part of her mind, soul, was not revealed to him.

Those blueprints he and Trunks had found could be studied, but they never explained _her._

Maybe it was his own fault. He had not treated her like a woman named cyborg 'Eighteen' enough. For the longest time, even after Krillin had tried to save her, she had been _Eighteen_ , the scary machine they had spent three years planning to fight. He'd been hopeless with her. Hopeless for her.

Krillin felt the cold sand against his cheek again, _this isn't real you know._

 _She wouldn't really be here, with you._

Even while she used those cool hands to cup his cheeks, and their mouths finally met.

Not really here.

He could describe the exact shape of her spine. How she bit her lip. Recite her threats and demands. And no one would ever believe him.

 _What are you thinking?_

It was gentle, the kiss, the one he'd been dreaming about rather than her averting her mouth away or attempting to eat his tongue or that polite mocking gesture when he'd caught her and she could not run but would not play along. There was no _fine, go ahead_ and rolling eyes to it. Nothing engulfing and violent. This was _nice_ , and in a sweet way.

Oh, but it didn't last.

Eighteen always found a way to corner him in return, and her nails dug into his jaw. One sharp twist and he could be dead, and since when was that exciting? He'd _had_ his neck broken before, after all. Smooth teeth. Those fingers so smooth and not anything like a demons. His chin was damp. He would be mauled shortly. She liked to bite. In a sudden burst, Krillin remembered fighting that vampire.

Her smile needed no fangs.

"You want to go slow, then?" Those finger brushed his pant's zipper. Just once and he was weak, shaking. "I don't think you even can control yourself, Krillin."

Just long enough. For the sake of their relationship, he could hold on.

He would just have to hold on. Try to focus on something else. Yeah. Just like when he'd been trying to avoid thinking about her at all sexually. That scary (beautiful) android (perfect woman) that would murder everyone on Earth (the softest lips)and had beat up his friends (but Vegeta had deserved it). But this time Krillin would not weaken.

Not like before, when he'd been haunted by the dreams that followed him. Remember the first dream about her, so horrifying. He had wanted to tell his own body, 'it's not like that!' But it had been exactly like everyone had thought with their judging eyes as Gohan took the chance to inform everyone how much Krillin liked Eighteen. He had practically been panting after and over her.

As though she hadn't already had her suspicions about this sweating nervous man that kept struggling to make eye contact and did she notice how his voice changed, how his shoulders went back in front of her. She had known, and accepted it in the end. _Shut up,_ she would moan into his mouth while he struggled to say, to not say, how much he adored her. _Oh shut up._

Still, Krillin would resist temporarily and settle for kissing her neck and listening to those purrs. His goddess was pleased, and that was the most important thing.

And in another timeline, not just hypothetically, or supposedly, she had murdered him. She had killed him and never regretted it after, as she continued with her mass murder spree, the genocide, a murderess machine. Just over _there_ and he was dead by her hand, and they would have never known this. Those poor morons over there, never knowing what they missed out on.

Everyone must think their relationship was unique and special, but wasn't this one?

You're a cyborg! And look at me. Look at you. You were going to kill all of us and now you complain about the lines at the mall and let me kiss you at the Orange Julius.

All-consuming. He saw her in the sun and in the blue sky, in the fog that rolled from the sea, and squirrels would never look the same. He spoke a new language and saw different colors. Krillin couldn't even handle using the remote to change channels on the TV.

You over the entire world, he would whisper as his eyes traced over her. A sweet sickness. Her laugh as she cradled his head in her lap and he groaned unintelligibly. Love you, and you know it.

He hadn't even asked his Master and Oolong about their trip out, and what they had done and would be charged with. They might have called from a jail cell needing bail, and Krillin wouldn't have even picked up the phone.

His earlobe ended up between her teeth. But Krillin did catch her hands. "No. No."

Krillin was not one for saying 'no' with her.

And he usually didn't grab her to hold her into place, not like this. Safely removing and holding those hands rather than let them be on him. She twisted and made a face. You really going to do this?

Yes, oh yes, dear.

He'd never seen her look resigned before. Even when Cell cornered her. "Oh, fine. We can go _slow_ then. What now?"

He could appreciate their height difference for a moment, before she decided to ignore him possibly giving any orders. Eighteen made a show of flopping onto the bed. One hip turned towards him. Trying to act like she was doing him a favor, an innocent being devoured by some brute. She should have been an actress. "Like this?"

Maybe she would be, once she—or maybe she already was one. Plays and small movies. How could Krillin know for certain? Other boyfriends? No, if Eighteen had other guys she would be with them and not him. But why was she with him at all?

Why me?

She never told him why.

Krillin came towards her, and _felt_ like some brute. He would always feel clumsy with her so close. _Are you really there_ , he kept wanting to ask every time, but couldn't. Because what if she answered back? What if she didn't?

Her nose was wrinkled. "Your sheets smell like baby oil and chocolate. It's disturbing."

"I thought I washed that out."

She almost asked a follow up to that, but then thought better of it. "So now what?"

"We're going to be _gentle_."

"Don't scold me."

"I'm not! Just relax."

Eighteen looked so skeptical. Krillin had to remind himself that he could touch her, that she was real, and not (so) evil anymore. All dark and brilliant compared to the white sheets, bright and sucking all the oxygen from the room. Time no longer existed. Her arms were crossed, and he had to pull them apart. Stroke down those ferocious limbs to find her scary fingers, and entwine his own mortal ones with them. Flawless and small and pale, fingernails short and almond-shaped, cold. She had hidden away those fingers in balled fists for him to tug at but only reach when Eighteen relented.

And he could kiss her too.

Right here, on the neck, on her collarbone, her chin, her cheeks (always remembering that first kiss), her mouth. Those arms were going around him, finding the small of his back. Tugging at a belt loop.

Familiar territory.

He would have waited so many more years to have her here. They had been meant, fated, to not meet until that day that Trunks had foretold. Built up for this, and Krillin could already hear her protests. _This is an accident. Of course there is no such thing as fate._

But wasn't that all the more a confirmation? No accident or fate. I chose this.

His breath caught.

That hair was a spill of silver in the dim light. Her neck stretched out. Skin milky and flawless and revealed. Choosing him.

It took control on his part not to take charge. Grab and shove, quick and fast. Right there then and there, all frantic and trying to keep his mouth closed while he tried to keep her in place. He couldn't hurt her. Eighteen laughed when he grabbed her wrists, raised one eyebrow, really, Krillin? Just don't rip her clothes.

The pretend male from all those movies. Do exactly what I say. Just like that. They both knew all about those scenes. He remembered the first time. Her forehead against his stomach, and Krillin thought he would _die_ right then and there. 'This is exactly what you want, isn't it?'

Eighteen was smirking. Remembering the past. Can't control himself. In that, she was the one in charge for all the things he might do.

Krillin would buckle and give in and it would be desperate and lovely like all the other times. They might put another new hole in the wall or in the ceiling for him to repair later, when he'd sobered up. It would be fireworks and love, and Eighteen would smoke afterwards, preening while he drooled into a pillow. She would slip away before morning, smug and sure of where they stood and he would be pissed at himself. This is more than that, Eighteen.

"Is this what you want?"

Yes. "No."

"Here."

His favorite thing.

She bit his lower lip, all contained strength, nails stroking along his back finding their way under his shirt. "Off."

It still embarrassed him, to be shirtless in front of her. Her in a hammock, waiting for him, the shadows falling around them from the palm tree. Peeling their clothes off, and her smugness. It's a good look on you. Sunburns and fear of capsizing. They had half-pulled up those poor trees. She laughed when he fell out, unable to walk straight with imprints all over his back from the rope.

Those greedy eyes. She found her own attraction to him amusing, while he blushed.

You like this?

It's alright.

She was feeling playful again. In charge. Nothing was more beautiful than the sight of her raising that shirt over her head.

He saw skin and was blinded by his own imagination that was eager to fill in the gaps. Pitiful. All but whimpering. That smooth silk of her back. Eighteen was laughing but he could see those twin lines to her stomach, the ribs and her bellybutton, the fluttering muscles. He could lose himself studying her. That black bra he liked. Half-curled up and fussing with her hair.

Her legs to be grabbed and tugged downward. Nothing was softer than that warm worn denim. This calf and that thigh that begged for Krillin's head to rest upon. Expose the back of his neck for those dangerous seeking fingers to stroke and fuss over his hair. A thousand years of endless torture to touch her, and she had rolled her eyes at that proclamation. "Stop fawning."

Krillin fluttered his eyelashes and pouted. "Yes, Mistress."

It was a thousand years of endless torture before I met you.

Count the months and years that had gaped open, a desert he had wandered. Her beauty the oasis and shore. She had despised his poetry but never threw it away (in front of him).

Her hips in his hands. Krillin struggled to control himself. Casually pull down her jeans and listen to their whisper. To her purring. Yes, slave, you may continue.

Mm, a matching set. Slinky and black, and that moronic thirteen-year-old giggled, and reminded Krillin that he wasn't worthy of this. One of these days, he would find himself trying to take these from her, maybe one night in the back of a car when she was particularly acidic and open to him being a weird pervert. You can take mine.

"Now what?"

Unbutton and grab and shove, like previous times. That ungainly wiggling. A race to reach the end but not too quickly. Soft burning. Oh, there was burning. It would be nothing to shove aside what little she wore. Permission was the ultimate aphrodisiac. He was a weak, weak man.

"Slow," he reminded himself. "Slow, _Eighteen_."

"This is so—"

The flat stomach. The way she tensed when he kissed her bellybutton. No matter what, she would almost become anxious with him like this. Those complicated fingers with their swirls and blue veins and wrinkles in the knuckles to be studied were gone, lost in his hair. Cradle his empty skull. Nothing better than this, this _expectation_. Permission and realization. Share and partake.

"— _Unnecessary._ "

Off. _Off._ That black silk was smoother in his hands, and warm. Oh. Always, it tipped him over and left him confused and _starving._

He wanted that startling fact in his face. Crude and pink. Everything from the videos, the photos, the magazines had teased. Inside jokes and a curious stare when long legs were crossed. Woman preening and aware and all the things he wanted but couldn't have. Old faded crushes that were less than nothing right now. What other women?

"I don't even know what point you're trying to prove. Oh, hurry up. _Now_."

She had resented and enjoyed him on his knees like this. _Do you like doing_ that to _That's where you belong_. Agreed all around. Bemusement as they sunk into each other this strange way. Eyes so wide and her back arched just so, a stifled moan. A creamy thin thigh against his cheek, muscles trembling. Breathe a certain way and hope she wasn't thinking about his lack of nose like he was right then. Be glad of flexibility and the capability to ignore minor discomforts (tongue, knees, back, neck) when things lasted longer than both had planned and neither would be able to walk straight afterwards and the shadows had moved. We were here for how long?

Meditations between her thighs. All he needed. Every answer to every question could be found here, and how appalled would everyone be to see him like this when she first arrived? Wrapped up in her. Servicing the scary machine, the cyborg Eighteen. Games where he saved to Earth, all on his own this way. Happy to do my part.

She would not know what to do with herself, trying to control every muscle that was no longer fully listening. The only way Krillin could beat her. Lifted up and shoved towards the Earth. Eighteen had to bite her lip until it nearly bled. Languid sighs. A puff of air could have his head accidentally crushed or purposely kicked in.

Always a gasp, her trying to be quiet, a building falling apart. The only way he could make her twist and fall apart. And I thought you removed the bomb, she had murmured once, one of the few times she had alluded to that Before, where they had been nearly sworn-enemies. All those muscles pulled and tight and that fall backwards.

He could nearly smirk at her like that. Like this. Better than any magazine, any dream and fantasy. She was gorgeous and momentarily sated. A swallow and a vacant stare at the ceiling. "You like that?"

"It's your best talent," Eighteen responded, blinking heavily.

"You've never heard me sing. Yet."

That smile was slow and smug as his own. "Yes I have."

Wasn't that another lovely surprise? That they could laugh, at each other, with each other. She had a sense of humor, and a taste for irony and put up with his exaggeration. But more than that, they could laugh at whatever gods and fate that had tried to lead them down different paths as this one. Laughed and laughed.

The spring was pushed a little further back. That's all. A start, but a fine one. They were getting better at those, considering how they'd met. The smoke had cleared, and there she had been. Denim and a t-shirt that was not snug yet clung to her frame. Sometimes, Krillin wondered if she wouldn't mind too terribly finding a similar outfit some time…

"And if you sing," Eighteen vowed, "I will definitely call this a night."

She could already, at any time. Leave him there desperate and twitching, but she wasn't that cruel, usually. No, tonight she wouldn't be that cruel.

You want to stay. To be with me.

"Is this slow enough for you?"

The lightest mocking kiss.

Alright then.

We are more than this. Energy and ki and soul.

Still, their mouths found each other. Explored. Her bra was peeled off and they agreed to pretend he was not a drooling pervert for a few seconds. She decided to grab his belt loop and hold him in place. Skin to thin fabric. It was a pleasant torture.

He'd lost weight since their first meeting, and fit all the neater next to her.

For once, Krillin played his own interior movie and narration inside internally rather than tell a smugly amused Juuhachigou. Why did I not use that remote? You know why.

Practically since we met. You can imagine, I'm sure. The dreams and fantasies. You pushing your hair back away from that mouth I love to kiss to tell me exactly what to do. You in that skirt but I'll take care of that soon enough. And I'll wear that old gi you kissed me in, reciting prayers and chants, while she twisted and hissed that he better not rip her stockings, and he could nearly feel of her squirming in his grip. For this. And in those fantasies, while he believed that she wouldn't murder him for messing up her clothes, he was still careful removing her stockings.

Bare, now, she squirmed when he applied his thumb in soft circles. Eighteen twitched, complacent, but then she was moving. "Slow, huh?"

He had never needed to tell her anything. Eighteen just understood this body more than he did. Whatever you want; this is yours.

She bit his ear. _Mine._

The sound of his zipper behind slid downward could make Krillin all but weep.

She liked that. I can make you cry in so many ways.

It didn't go exactly as it did in the movies. There would be times when she would just nuzzle against him, through his pants, and he would be reduced to a sobbing wet mess. Others when he couldn't, because of the grip, because of the previous times, and Eighteen would be equal parts annoyed and amused. Once half-undressed, pants pulled down, desperate and, and right about to, and then having to make it up to her for messing up her skirt. Another time, teasing, making him wait outside a door and listen while he sobbed and repeated that no, he was being good and not touching himself like she ordered.

And now he was thoughtless and desperate. Practically trying to hold her into place, and that could earn him a good smack to the wrists with an unoccupied hand. Why couldn't he stop from whimpering when like this? Just _once_? This spasming fear and anticipation. The best part. Teeth, blunt, and her mouth, wet and engulfing.

It wasn't anything like the movies. He was the one all desperate, _submissive_ , and even in this way she was in charge, wholly, while he squirmed. He was the one pushed and seduced while she acted mock-concerned. Is it too much for you? Can you handle this? Don't worry, I'll go slow. Even now, she was grinning, getting her way while having her way with him.

You've ruined everything for me.

Blind, torn the cowl away, left naked and sightless and free. He was back at the Lookout, standing there exposed to her while she looked at him and said without reluctance or spite that she would see him again.

"Puppy." She gave him an indulgent smacking kiss that turned inappropriate after another second. Oh, Eighteen, no wonder you can't kiss me in public. The cops would have to be called to separate us. Hoses turned. Between my self-control and yours, we could do a lot of property damage.

Here is the main part. Go ahead. Go and try it _slow_ , little man.

He tasted it in her mouth, so much. They melted a little, and Krillin knew, knew with a perfect understanding that she cared for him almost as much as he loved her. He could look into her eyes and recall the first time he'd done that, when she'd stooped to kiss Silky small of her back. "Dear."

"Don't call me that."

"Babe. Darling."

He loved that irritated little frown and the wrinkle that drew between her eyebrows. Riling her up could be the best thing, the scariest. You won't, well, you might a little, but you won't really mean to seriously hurt me. The control Krillin had always suspected she'd possessed, but he hadn't known of her gentleness, the pinches and scratches that led to strokes.

"Honey."

It was easy to remember her pushing him against a wall. That quick smile as she pushed her hair aside. She could have broken him with a rough hand or a soft kiss. He had been awed, from the moment they met, and could only squirm. Smitten and delighted and frightened by those eyes that met his without reservation or doubt. You're not going to kill me, right, hey, Eighteen? She had only smiled.

In the sun, where he'd been blinded, hopeless. It was that kiss, the time you kissed me, Krillin had wanted to confess. That's when I fell in love with you. That's why I saved you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I adore you so much.

But she had gotten up and left before he could confess.

"Eighteen."

She held him in place to kiss his forehead and he slumped forward into her. "It's supposed to be special."

 _"Every_ time should be special for you." Her sneer was beautiful. "How are you going to make it different, Krillin?"

This was slowness. They were together. She tried not to shudder when his mouth slipped downward to envelope a pale breast. Partners. Fingers interlocked and lasting. Eighteen tasted sweet, and the heavy way she breathed, the gleam in her eyes. He would toss out those cigarettes later too.

He clawed at her back, trying to get inside while she pushed back.

"Slow." She swallowed.

"Slow."

They kissed, and if anyone, maybe Baba, had told him that he would one day feel Eighteen in his lap, fingers in his hair, Krillin would have had a heart attack and then asked sweatily, guiltily for more details. Tell me more tell me everything. On the whole, nothing had gone as expected when planning for the androids. They will be moody teenagers, and will only fight to defend themselves. A big red-haired one will sacrifice himself to save the world. You will fall in love with the blonde one. The brunette one will crush a beercan on your head, and you will be grateful because maybe he didn't want to hurt you as much anymore.

She'll never agree either way that she wanted to go on a date with you. But there will be love making. You may break a few lamps, and definitely at least one remote and one hammock. She moans in the back of her throat, and its exceedingly hard to give her a hickey. Fireworks will blind you every time she's around, and she will still insult all your friends and compliment you after you stop shaving your head with a scoff that she didn't care at all what he looked like anyway. She won't kill you, but it may feel like she's trying.

Trunks frowning, warning them all about their deaths, and he would have been so appalled. She had killed him, surely. A blow to the heart. Sit upright, her arched back unraveling, seated and stabbed and embedded. undone.

Find her.

Her gaze was filmy. Those dark eyelashes were no longer hiding those spring morning eyes. Over blown pupils. What did she see? You.

And in this timeline I could have killed you.

She whispered his name. She weighed nothing. They collapsed inward and inside.

Fall over and over again.

Her forehead against his collarbone. Darling. Love was too small a word. Four stupid letters could never capture this. Dumb whispering syllables. Bright gold hair touching his chin. Her hands were on his back, splayed and scrapping nails lightly. _Krillin._ Perhaps numerals could come closer though.

He could cling, and could be clung to in return. Eighteen had to watch her grip, and he was relieved, and mourned the loss of her expressing her full feelings, no matter the broken bones and shrieking nerves. Her mouth was open and brushing against his, loose and light. Thanks. Searching for consciousness that had slipped away from them.

Her collarbone against his chin. "See. It was more special this time."

Do you feel it?

"Is it?"

Did you not? Did you not feel this way the other times?

Her eyelashes tickled his face

"You're wrong. It's always like this. For me." To look away would have been weak, a failure, and Juuhachigou _hated_ losing. Her lip brushed against his. "I thought…I was wrong. It's not really different. I thought it would be. But it's the same. It was the same as all the other times…"

"Eighteen?"

"Shh."

"Eighteen."

Husked. Removed and covered. Don't leave. But she wouldn't.

Just lie there.

Shh.


End file.
